Taking care of each other
by Nelioe
Summary: It's always said, that the older brother has to protect the younger. This is his only task. But actually it's different. Brothers take care of each other and care little about the discrepancy in age.


As you will recognize after the first sentence English is not my first language. So please don't be too hard on me. Oh, and the story based on the book, so in this Óin and Glóin are younger than Thorin. The original of this story in my first language can be found under the title: "Aufeinander achtgeben" at fanfiktion _dot _de.

* * *

War was a cruel business. The fights were exhausting body and mind equally and with a battle, which stretched over years, not a small number lost their mind while facing all the anguish which happened near them. But one doesn't need to fight at the front to feel such effects. Óin was young when the battle of Azanulbizar climaxes. They didn't put a weapon into his hands, how they had done it with so many others, and hoped that he'd be able to defend himself in case of an emergency. He filled another position.

Unyielding he worked in the healing tents, bathed wounds and bandaged them, picked herbs, pounded them and produced ointments and antifebrile teas. He could hear the screaming and begging and didn't even forget these noises, when he spent the nights with his little brother away from the sickbay. But the worst was the stench, a mixture of sweat, blood, urine and rot. One ought to think, after all the years, he'd have become attuned to it, but he'd quickly realized that things existed one couldn't become attuned to. He couldn't eat at this place. The smell and the sight of purulent infections and caked with blood skin made it impossible.

At the evenings, when he couldn't go to sleep because of the din of the battle, Glóin eyed him concerned. Óin had revolted against Thrain, the first and only time, when his men had grabbed Glóins arm, ready to thrust a spear into his hand, which was thrice as big as his little brother. He had begged, declared his brother could be useful in doing other things and to his surprise his request was imparted. Now his brother helped the women in cleaning the weapons, scrubbing the blood out of the linen and helped cooking the sparsely meals. Not a child anymore, never a child again.

All the working and the anguish had shooed the youth away from him, Glóin looked too old for his small body. And that is how it came that he comforted Óin, as soon as he returned from his stint at the healing tents. It felt so wrong. He was the older; he should take care of the younger instead of the reverse. But he felt so feeble, so incredibly feeble. Every day drained stronger at his strength. But he couldn't rest; lives were depending on him and even if he'd only a fraction of knowledge compared with the other healers, nothing of that was allowed to be wasted.

* * *

After the final fight every available men was called to the battlefield. The last gasp of their enemy had left more wounded as every day before. Óin wandered between the heaps of corpses and searched desperate for faces whose rescue would be crowned with success. What he found instead was Frerin. His distant cousin, who was pale and had hardly any life in his bloody chest. A tiny part of him knew already that help came too late for him. Years later he would understand, but in that moment he saw only the young prince and had not the heart to pass by like he had done it earlier with so many others.

He found dwarfs who helped him with the transport, while he tried to staunch the bleeding. In the sickbay he focused on everything what he'd learned. Cleaned the wounds, stitched them conscientious and used every ruse he knew to provide a wounded with liquid.

His stint was already over, but he refused to leave the side of the prince. A fever settled down in Frerins body and when he struggled in his delirium Óin couldn't find a way to hold him still and the stiches wrenched open. So he started again, staunched the bleeding, cleaned the wounds and stitched and stitched and stitched.

He wetted clothes and the prince sucked greedily the liquid out of them. He wrapped cold linen round his calves to lower the fever, but it wasn't enough. Every time he thought he neared the solution and could give Frerin analgesics to give him some minutes rest, something unexpected happened.

The desperation increased in him. The lack of sleep and the few morsels - he'd gulped down despite the stench - were exhausting him furthermore. To end is stint, like he should have done it hours ago, wasn't an option. No one would bend on Frerins side, while he'd try to recover. They had given him up, but Óin remained stubborn and the longer Frerin kept up the more Óin hoped that he maybe had the strength to survive this.

It was the moment when Frerin opened his glassy eyes that Óins vision blurred and he nearly crashed beside the cot. He landed at his elbows with a painful groan and shook his head strained to force clarity in his mind, but instead his world span much worse than before.

"Óin!", a voice startled him and he lifted his head disoriented.

Between two hard breaths he discovered Glóin, who stood between two cots. His face was pale from all the misery of his surroundings. The sight of his brother was everything he needed to struggle to his feet. But Glóin was at his side in an instant and pulled roughly at his arm.

"Óin, you need to rest", he begged distraught.

The fact that Glóin could pull him to the ground, should have been an indication for him to agree with his words. But he couldn't. Who should take care of Frerin if not him? Nobody believed that he could survive but despite that he'd kept up. If he would now leave the side of the prince all his efforts would be wasted.

"No, I can't leave him alone", he murmured exhausted.

In Glóins eyes laid a pleading expression, but Óin let himself not get worked up. He was the older one and he knew what he could endure!

"Go away, you hear me! It isn't your job to take care of me. I can do that by myself. I don't need you!", he responded angrily.

His voice cracked at the last syllable, because he knew, that his words weren't true. And Glóin knew it either, for he hold on to him and stared at him with a quivering lower lip.

"Please, Óin", he whispered anxious.

Before he could answer or his brother could beg him again, two new shapes arrived Frerins bed. Óin knew both only too well, which was the reason why his lids widened bewildered. Gróins appearance was bruised and bloody and one of his arms hung in a sling. Worried he bends forward to him and pressed a hand to his forehead. Óin winced under the touch, since he never expected such an action.

"Dear me, lad! You run a fever and need rest", his father noticed distressed.

"No, I can't, Frerin-", he started desperate but the second newcomer interrupted him.

"- will be well looked after", Thorin replied and sat down on the seat Óin had barley left the last two and a half days. Thorin didn't look less worn out then Gróin.

The hand of the prince stroked tenderly through Frerins sweaty hair. The touch made the lad blink; his disoriented gaze cleared itself and wandered to his older brother. He parted his lips, but instead of words only a strained wheeze escaped him.

"It's all right, little brother. I'm here", Thorin murmured soothing.

It seemed like it was everything Óins body needed. With the knowledge that somebody would take care of Frerin in his absence, the tension left him and he sank into darkness.

* * *

Frerin died in the same night. It seemed like his broken body had only waited for his brother. Like the volition, to see Thorin a last time and to say goodbye, was all which had kept the life in him.

Óin cried as soon as he experienced it. His weak body and the knowledge about his waste of effort weighed heavily on his soul. He wondered ceaseless if he could have been able to save the life of the prince, if his acquirements in the medicine would have just been wider. And so he cried, unable to sooth himself until Glóin eventually crawled to him and talked gently to him. His little brother, who seemed so wise, although he should rather laugh and frolic around at his age.

And while they were lying there in the dark and Óin listened to the steady breathes of the younger, it occurred to him for the first time, that it maybe wasn't a point under brothers that the older took care of the younger, but rather that they should take care of each other. Like Frerin had by keeping up until he could make his farewells to Thorin.


End file.
